Five Drunken Confessions of Santana Lopez
by Jinxgirl
Summary: Santana plus alcohol equals much emotion, and a lot more emotional honesty than she's usually comfortable with. Five times Santana's drinking brought about secrets she had no intention of sharing. Circa season 2. Includes Santana, Brittany, Quinn, Kurt, Puck, Rachel.
1. Chapter 1: Cuddling

Five Drunken Confessions of Santana Lopez

Cuddling

If she were to get honest with herself, Santana would have to admit that she had never really been attracted to Puck at all.

Of course, she had WANTED him. Who didn't want the guy who was known as one of the few semi-decent football players and hottest pieces of action in the school? Who didn't want a guy whose biceps were almost as big around as her thighs? To get Noah Puckerman into her would be to prove that she could attract one of the most panted-after guys in the school, and that would make it clear to everyone else that Santana Lopez was hot too. After all, a guy like Puck, who could have his pick of any girl in the school…if he wanted Santana, that had to mean that she was one of the best.

There was no way, of course, to prove that if you didn't have a guy spelling it out to the world. No one could ever think of Santana as the sexy, untouchable badass that she so badly wanted them to if she was ever single, or at least if she wasn't getting it on with someone on a regular basis. More accurately, someone with a decent ability to grow facial hair and a decent-sized penis.

The penis factor, well, that was a whole other story that she didn't often even want to let herself think about, let alone talk about with anyone else. If it ever cropped up into her mind, Santana went out of her way to go on the defensive against it, shoving her thoughts aside and determinedly forcing new ones in.

So she wasn't really all that ATTRACTED to Puck. So maybe the feel of his stubbly chin, when he got lazy about shaving, skeeved her out when she kissed him, making her mentally compare him to a very blunt cactus. Maybe she didn't like how his hands were rough against her skin, moving with too much pressure and speed, completely missing her most pleasurable places and mashing down too hard and clumsily against others. Maybe she didn't like the ridiculous way his mouth hung open and his nostrils flared when he came, the weird grunting noises he made when she touched him, or the way he generally smelled faintly of stale sweat and cloying deodorant. Maybe it was the way his tongue reminded her of those creepy eels on The Little Mermaid, Brittany's favorite Disney movie, all, skinny, fast, and darting.

Brittany….how was it that every time she started out thinking about Puck, or any other guy she fixed her sights and goals on, her thoughts always seemed to somehow shift back to Brittany?

Sometimes she thought that maybe it wasn't really anything in particular about Puck at all, or even the package of all the details all together. Sometimes, before she could shove it back and bury it again where it belonged, Santana thought that maybe what the real problem was, was that Puck wasn't Brittany. That none of them were.

But that possibility wasn't one that occurred to her often, and for as long as she could shove it down, force herself to focus on something else, she could almost forget it had ever come to mind. The easiest way to push it down deep into the back of her thoughts was to immediately touch the closest guy, to run her fingers up his arm and press her recently augmented breasts into his chest, to drop her voice low and breathe into his ear while stroking her other hand down low over his torso, then lower still. Feeling him suck in his breath and draw her harder against him, his neck bending forward to suck her lower lip into his mouth, was sometimes just distracting enough for Santana to almost believe that her physical reaction to him was more intense than it actually was, that she felt every bit as attracted to him as he was towards her.

And if she couldn't quite manage, well, there was always alcohol as an option to help her out.

Drinking always gave Santana the chemical push she needed to fully believe whatever it was she was telling herself, to take her hoped for reality and make herself believe it in full. With shots of tequila, several beers, or even a few fuzzy navels in her system, everyone and everything, including whichever person was shoving his hand under her shirt or down her pants, seemed considerably more interesting and exciting. Maybe it was because her eyes were too blurred to see straight, maybe the warm, buzzing sensation it sent through her skin made everything more pleasant to the touch, but whatever it was, Santana would take it, even actively seek it out, if it would make everything easier.

The downside to alcohol was that as much as it helped her to enjoy herself more thoroughly in the first forty-five minutes or so, as well as whatever guy she happened to be with, the next hour or two afterward generally took a nosedive. As soon as the initial adrenaline tapered off, Santana's enthusiasm towards having as much sex in as many ways as possible, as immediately as possible, abruptly stopped, and a sharp sense of melancholy settled in instead. While sober, she would deny it as fiercely as she could manage, with sharp retorts and even her fists, if she had to, but she knew as well as anyone that every time she drank, she would inevitably end up in tears.

More times than she could recall she had ended up screaming into guys' faces and beating her fists against their chests while sobbing incoherently, running away from a party with a half-zipped skirt, tears streaming down her face, or hunched over a toilet as she dry-heaved, her hair clinging to the dampness of her cheeks as she wailed, with either Quinn or Brittany gingerly patting her back. It had become something of a gamble to Santana to try to time exactly how long she had between the initial rush of drinking and the breakdown that would follow, to see if she could extract herself from being in an embarrassing situation before it finally hit. Problem was, once she started drinking, her logic and math skills tended to fall by the wayside, so more often than not, her plan to make a cool exit while still totally in control of the guy, if not herself, didn't exactly work out as planned.

So far with Puck, though, it hadn't been a problem. Generally whenever she was drinking, which was most of the time when she was alone with him, he was drinking too, so if she lost it in front of him, chances were good he would have forgotten it by morning. Still, Santana was stacking the odds in a badly teetering tower and she knew it. The only person with less of a guard against their mouths were Rachel Hobbit Berry and Finn Whiteboy-Dancer Hudson, but Puck was a close third. If she ever said something too incriminating while in the midst of an alcohol-induced breakdown, he would never let her live it down.

Still, that never stopped her from picking up the bottle, or the shotglass, or even the friggin' funnel, because when it came to Santana Lopez, pride won out over fear almost every time.

"That's right, baby, just like that…" Noah Puckerman grunted as his teeth nipped at the base of Santana's throat, most of the weight of his body pressing against hers so that her spine dug hard against one of the springs of his narrow twin bed. At least, Santana thought it was his bed; the fact that the slightly blurred walls appeared to be some shade of purple made her think that either Noah had some sick, secret liking for either Prince or Barney that she had previously been unaware of, or that it was in fact his sister's bed they were using at the moment.

Either way, she couldn't bring herself to care. She had had four shots of tequila, as well as two body shots straight off of Brittany's neck and navel, and it was taking all her efforts of focus to attempt to redirect the excitement this had provoked in her towards Puck instead. And right now, it wasn't really working.

She had started off well enough; when she heard Puck's voice in the background among the others, cheering her on, she had slowly detached her tongue from Brittany's navel, breathing heavily, her skin warm and flushed, the bitter taste of alcohol and the salty/sweet taste of Brittany's skin lingering on her tongue and lips as she turned towards him, breaking out into a smile that was partly happy, partly seductive, and only mostly forced as she launched herself against his chest, one arm hooking around his neck as she attached her lips forcefully to his. With her other hand snaking beneath his shirt and working lower, Santana had announced considerably louder than they had to that it was time for them to make a private playdate, knowing even as she spoke that these actions would erase any possible doubts that what she had just done with Brittany might have brought up. She was straight, straight, straight, with the only kinks to speak of being either alcohol-induced and intended to titillate her REAL man, or else being part of her popular repertoire in sex.

They had to think that. Even when so drunk she could barely remember the right order of words in her intended sentence, Santana knew to her core that this was vital.

Puck had given no protests, of course, and for the first couple of minutes Santana had enjoyed his attention, if only vaguely. But the longer she lay back on what was possibly his sister's bed, the more lethargic and uninterested she began to feel, her limbs heavy and slow to react to his rapid advancements. She ignored it at first, attempting to push through and force herself to feel again what emotions had only slightly been there to begin with and were now entirely absent. But as Puck continued to mutter affirmations of his lust, his breath hot against her neck and collarbone, Santana grew irritable, shoving at his hands. When he ignored her, one hand kneading her breast awkwardly enough for her to gasp, slightly pained, she pinched his nipple, using her long, manicured nails to dig in with deliberate intent to hurt.

"Ow! Dammit, San, watch it!" Puck gasped, his hand reflexively jerking back from her, his weight easing off of her slightly, but if she had thought this would be enough to make him fully back off or stop, she had been mistaken. It would have taken a megaphone hitting him upside the head to insure this, and Santana was sorry that hers wasn't anywhere near her so she could try.

As his hands restarted their path over her chest and legs, seemingly determined to leave no part of her untouched, Santana's chest tightened with her growing irritation, and she grabbed his wrists with both hands, again digging her nails into his skin to make him stop.

"You're doing it too hard!"

"That's how you like it, baby," Puck slurred, his lips quirking into a loose, sloppy grin that usually charmed whichever girl he aimed it towards, but Santana was not impressed.

As his mouth descended towards hers again, his lips prying hers open, his tongue slipping into her mouth and stroking aggressively against her upper mouth and tongue, Santana was again reminded of the eels of The Little Mermaid, then of Brittany's partly frightened, partly fascinated expression as she watched them dart in and out among the water. Thinking of Brittany sent a sharp, aching pain through her chest, and Santana turned her face away, pushing out again at his chest.

"Stop kissing me like that! You suck, Puckerman!"

"You bet I do," Puck grinned, not seeming to hear the growing anger in Santana's tone and to understand it to be genuine. When he took hold of her chin, trying to turn her face back towards him, and begin to lower his face to hers again, Santana screamed aloud, bucking her body beneath his and repeatedly hitting his arms with her fists.

"Get off me! You're not doing it right, get off!"

"Huh? San, what's your problem?" Puck asked as he rolled off of her, staring. With the narrowness of the bed there was little room for him to go, so his heavy shoulder, hip, and leg still overlapped against her, seeming to Santana to be unbearably heavy, confining her to the bed without anywhere to escape to.

She took no notice of Puck's startled, somewhat stuporous expression, of the genuine bewilderment in his eyes as he blinked down at her. She was aware only of the growing tightness in her throat, the heat building behind her eyes, and by the time the tears came, she was too caught up in her own sudden misery to care.

"You never do it right! All you want is to touch my boobs and stick it to me, that's ALL, and they're not even mine, I fucking paid for them so you're really just touching money and plastic and not me…all you want is sex, sex, sex, is that all any man cares about? Is that all I'm good for? Is it?! Sex isn't even that fun, I would rather lay down and cuddle sometimes and you don't even care, no man ever cares…why don't men ever just want to cuddle?! Cuddling can be better than sex, don't you even know that, cuddling is way better than sex! How come boys never know that…Brittany knows that, Brittany knows when to have sex and when to just cuddle…how come Brittany knows that and no one else does?"

Later when she tried to piece together exactly what it was she had said, when it all seemed a blur of yelling in her memory, Santana only hoped that the fact that she had been profusely sobbing by then as she spoke had drowned out exactly what she had been saying. Because if it ever got around that she, Santana Lopez, had yelled at PUCK for not cuddling instead of having sex with her, well, there was no way her carefully cultivated reputation would recover from THAT.


	2. Chapter 2: Glee Club

Glee Club

At the beginning of the year, the end of the Glee Club would hardly have phased Santana. In fact, she would have been glad for it- after all, wasn't it her, Quinn, and Brittany's job to bring it about? Had the Glee Club been done away with, she would have considered it an accomplishment on her part, a job well done, and happily rubbed her success in the faces of its ex-members.

She never would have predicted that she would actually start to enjoy being part of the Glee Club. She would have laughed in the face of anyone who told her that eventually, coming to Glee Club would be the best part of her day, that she would feel more safe and relaxed when she stepped into the choir room than she could remember feeling in her life. If they had gone so far as to tell her that she would by the end of the year be fighting to keep the Glee Club along with all its other members, that she would sincerely and deeply care about the outcome of regionals, she would have suggested they take a detour off a tall building, because anyone that stupid clearly wouldn't be able to tell up from down as it was. And if never in her wildest, sickest fantasies would Santana have ever thought it possible that she would spend the night they lost at sectionals sobbing in Noah Puckerman's basement bathroom as Rachel Berry, of all people, tried to comfort her.

None of those things would have seemed possible, but a hell of a lot could change in one year.

If she was ever truly honest with herself- something Santana generally had difficulty with, if she didn't like what it was she was having to admit to herself- she really didn't enjoy cheerleading.

There were parts of it she liked, of course. She liked working her body to its breaking point, pushing herself to be better and sharper and stronger. She liked the feeling of energized adrenaline that ran through her when she had exerted herself until she had sweated off most of her makeup, the way she felt so clean even when she was physically filthy. But yelling cheers for a bunch of guys who usually played football about as well as SHE could, if she were to try? Hearing Sue Sylvester scream at her about her "sloppy" technique and her "lazy" effort, her "thunder" thighs and her "flabby" ass, her "floppy" breasts and "poochy" stomach…well, Santana might very well walk around the school like she owned the place, like she had no doubt at all that anyone who looked at her would have to find her attractive, but though she would never willingly admit it, she nearly always found a reason to hate her appearance, almost piece by piece. For someone to reinforce this insecurity daily, often at top volume and always in front of other attractive girls, was enough to steadily wear away at any enjoyment cheerleading gave her and instead to give way to a gritty resignation to struggle through.

For Santana, she enjoyed the status she received from cheering more than anything. She enjoyed wearing the uniform and assuming the position of power it gave her among other students, knowing that the moment she had it on, she was admired and feared, even if they didn't know her name or anything about her beyond the WMHS emblazoned across her newly surgically enhanced chest. But the chances of this were not that high; generally, the names of all cheerleaders were very much known to every other person in school, regardless of how much of a loser they were. Or maybe especially then.

More than the status of being a cheerleader in and of itself was the fact that she, Santana Lopez from Lima Heights, was a cheerleader. She was the only Latina cheerleader in her school, possibly in the county, definitely the only girl from Lima Heights who was at the top of the social ladder. Only her. Santana had pushed and clawed and fought her way through living with her family, living in her neighborhood, living as a Latina girl in a predominantly whitebread town to get herself to the top, and there she was now, Glee Club or not, she was THERE, exactly as she had always wanted. She couldn't falter for a single second, couldn't show a moment of uncertainty about her place there, or she would topple down beneath the weight of other girls. Girls who were thinner, prettier, and whiter than she was.

So, so what if Santana had secretly sang into her hairbrush or even her shampoo bottle for as long as she could remember, and danced her way down the hallway to her room even as a child? So what if every time she heard Amy Winehouse's unmistakable rasp come over the radio, she felt her heart still, and a shiver that was somehow warm with delight ran through her? So what if she felt sometimes that she was pouring every fiber of her being into her song, even the parts of herself that she could hardly understand or explain even to her own mind? So what if it seemed to her that sometimes songs could open her up and allow her to show the true depth of her feelings, giving her words she could not have come up with on her own or felt confident in creating for herself?

So what….it was _Glee Club_. Glee Club, the haven of the likes of that Dr. Frankenfurther rejects Kurt Hummel and the four-eyed dork Artie Abrams, that Asian Amy Lee wannabe Tina Cohen-Chang, and above all, RACHEL BERRY, the ultimate definition not only of geeky overachiever, but one who didn't know how to keep her mouth shut even when she wasn't singing. How could Santana let people know that she was enjoying Glee Club- hell, that she sort of loved it? That she had gotten to the point where she didn't hate all its losers, that she actually sort of liked being around them most of the time?

Cheerios was power and glory but also Sue and competition, and a gnawing, painful knowledge that she was never enough, that she would never truly be the best or even as good as she could or should be. Glee Club was dorky and cheesy, practically a musical Brady Bunch of sorts, but when Santana stepped in the choir room she never felt the despairing hopelessness about herself, her body, and ability that she felt on a daily basis everywhere else. In fact, she felt that she was wanted, an asset to the group, even that she was needed…because what other female could drop her voice as low as Santana could? Who else other than Brittany could dance as well or with as much sexual prow?

She was wanted there, accepted there, no matter how many times she mocked or made cutting comments towards the others, no matter how many times she shot down any efforts on their part to be friendly towards her. Santana had never felt that before in her life, at least not for extended periods of time, and after some time had passed she began to realize to her own partial horror, partial amazement, that it was softening her up, or maybe just letting her softness finally come through with less resistance on her part.

She liked Glee Club…maybe even sort of loved it. And she was starting to sort of love the other kids in it too. Even so, when they lost at Regionals, and she knew that this almost certainly meant the club's end in the following school year, Santana was stunned by how badly it hurt.

It had taken every ounce of her self-control to keep herself from bursting into tears on the stage as Aural Adrenaline was announced as the winner of Regionals, and the realization came over her simultaneously that this was likely the last time she would ever stand on stage as a part of the Glee Club again. Santana had stood with her hands balling into fists at her sides, her chin quivering as she bit the inside of her cheeks, and her cheeks burned with feeling as she blinked furiously. How could she go back to singing only to herself where no one else would hear, to dancing only to manipulate at parties rather than out of pure joy and expression of feeling? How could she pass these people in the hallway and pretend she hadn't felt herself actually start to enjoy being with them, pretend that they had never willingly spent time together at all?

How could she go back to the way she had been, now that she knew the difference?

The others, after Regionals, had drawn closer together even than usual, seeming determined to draw comfort and reassurance from each other, to spend every moment together that they could now that they were faced with the club's probable end. Santana saw as they traveled back to Lima Heights how they all talked and whispered together, texting and making plans to meet up during the summer, even literally leaning against each other, but she couldn't do the same. For one thing, no one but Puck, Quinn, or Brittany would even believe that she might want to be around them when she didn't have to be, and for another, seeing them out of context of the club, knowing that it would likely never be repeated once the school year started again, would be too hurtful to endure while still keeping them from seeing just how much it affected her emotionally.

Brittany had tried to talk to her and comfort her, stroking her hand and hair, and Quinn had texted even from the hospital, to ask whether they had won, but Santana had ignored them, shrugging off Brittany's hand and turning off her phone. How could she let even them see how upset she was over this, when everything between even them, her best friends, would be different once she started Cheerios up again in the fall? Her relationship with Quinn in particular had always been fraught with the strain of their competition; even if Quinn had just had a baby and been kicked off Cheerios, Santana had no doubt that Quinn was smart and determined enough to work her way back into the squad. If she knew just how much Glee Club had meant to her, even if it had meant as much or more to Quinn herself, Santana just knew that Quinn would find a way to use it against her once they were back with the other Cheerios, and then where would she be?

She had almost declined when Puck announced his plan for a party at his house once they were home. After all, as he proclaimed proudly, he was a father now, and that meant some celebration even if losing at regionals didn't. It would be a last event as a whole together, a way to say goodbye, and although no one actually said the words aloud, they all knew that this was its intention. Or maybe just an excuse; it was Puck, after all, and Santana knew as well as anyone that the guy would throw a party if he found a lost sock or something.

She didn't want to go. She wanted to shut herself up in her room and lick her wounds, really let herself feel the impending loss where no one else would see. But Puck called over his shoulder to her in the van, "Hey San, you'll be there too, right?" and Brittany, lightly squeezing her knee from beside her, looked at her with her blue eyes soft and wide as she said to her, "Please come, Tana, it will be fun," so what else could she do but agree?

Besides, it was a Puck party. Santana was more than accustomed to those as it was, and she could always just pretend to herself that it was just another of his parties, like any other. If more geeky kids than usual had crashed it, well, that was the only difference.

This wasn't the end. It just wasn't, at least not until she could deal with it alone.

Puck's party went as only Puck's parties could, and Santana threw herself into it with even more fervent abandon than usual, determined to at least give the clear illusion that she was having a good time. She danced with aggressive zeal, grinding into everyone who came near, male or female, whether or not they happened to have a dance partner at the time, a smile stretched across her features that began to feel pained as the night wore on. She danced, but she didn't sing- it would have been too much to even attempt that on this night. And whenever any alcohol was within her sight or grasp, she drank. Easier with alcohol to stretch out the illusion she painted for herself, to tell herself that this was just like any other night, any other party, that she was having a good time.

It wasn't the end. This was just any other night, any other party, and it was NOT the end.

But she had barely eaten or drank earlier in the day, and between her dancing and drinking, Santana was already dehydrated. It didn't take more than 45 minutes to an hour before she felt extremely unsteady and nauseated, her head pulsing faster than the hip-hop beat Puck had blasting at full volume from his speakers. Her feeling of physical unwellness only compounded the emotional pain she was already harboring, and by the time Santana felt a need to rush in the direction of Puck's basement bathroom, she was crying even before she made it to the door.

She barely was able to drop to her knees before the toilet and had no time to lift its lid before she vomited, her entire body shuddering with the unpleasant forcefulness of it. As Santana gasped and whimpered, drool slowly trickling out of her mouth, strands of hair coming lose and falling forward to touch the far from pristine toilet seat, she dug her lose hand into the skin of her upper thigh, barely feeling the sharpness of her fingernails cutting into its skin. Scooting back slightly on her heels, her stomach continuing to cramp and twist in an unsettling manner, she rested her cheek against the wall of Puck's bathtub as she continued to sob loudly, tears dripping into her loosened hair and settling in her collar bones.

The first knock that sounded on the bathroom door, Santana ignored, barely hearing it over the sound of her own crying. When the person knocked again, she yelled after them with a voice choked with tears, "Fuck off, leave me alone, go away!"

"Santana?" the knocker queried, and Santana's shoulders sagged as she recognized Rachel Berry's voice. Of all people, did it have to be HER trying to barge in on her now?

"Santana, is that you in there? I don't see you out in the party with the others and that sounds like your voice, somewhat, but I can't be sure, you sound somewhat different from usual in the tone and quality…are you ill? I thought I heard you vomiting-"

"I said fuck off, hobbit!" Santana reiterated, but the words were diminished by her voice breaking into a louder, more clearly identifiable sob, then several gasping whimpers that followed. She turned her face against her hand, still resting on the bathtub, to hide her eyes, but tears continued to scald her fingers as Rachel's loud voice, tinged with concern now as well as her usual intent, somewhat lecturing tone, continued on.

"Santana, really, if you are ill then you have to let someone come in and check on you, and it really is time for you to stop drinking and to come lie down, or else go home. I've read about alcohol poisoning, and you were drinking quite a bit and have a very small frame, so it's quite possible that you could be experiencing this, and if that is the case then you have to let me check on you or you could die. Or are you doing this on purpose? Is this bulimia? Because I've read about that too, and it has really terrible health effects, it will wear off the enamel of your teeth and it could rupture your esophagus, not to mention the wear and tear on your voice! Santana, if you would deliberately compromise your voice in such a way-"

"I SAID TO FUCKING GO AWAY, RACHEL!" Santana nearly shrieked, tears streaming harder down her face even as she spoke, and it seemed to her that it was the fact that she had said Rachel's name rather than a demeaning nickname for her that really struck Rachel and intensified her concern.

"Santana…are you crying?"

With a shaking hand Santana scrubbed at her eyes with the palm of her hand, trying to rub away the evidence that she was, but more tears came before she had even rid herself of the previous ones, and her entire body shook with the continuing force of her sobs. She barely looked up when the door open and Rachel stepped through, shutting it properly behind her as she took a hesitant step forward, coming to stand over Santana from just behind her.

"The door wasn't locked…if you really want people to stay away, you should lock the door, you know," Rachel informed her as she looked down at her with her brow furrowed, her head tilted slightly to the side. "Not that I'm complaining because otherwise I would have had to break in, and I'm sure you didn't want that, there would be many more people involved in this then and it would be that much more embarrassing for you, because no one likes for other people to see them vomit. Or to smell it because honestly, I think this room probably reeked even before that due to Puck's lack of basic hygienic care, but the presence of vomit hasn't improved it at all…let me just flush and…"

As she flushed the toilet, then looked back over to Santana, taking in her flushed, tear-streaked face and still-shaking form on the floor, her frown deepened, and she took another step closer, awkwardly extending a hand without actually touching her.

"Santana? Are you all right? Do you want me to get Quinn or Brittany for you, or, uh…"

As Santana looked back at her, sniffling, she was prepared to tell her again to go away, that she didn't want or need anyone, least of all Rachel My-Two-Dads-Dress-Me Berry. But what happened instead was she burst into renewed tears, her voice trailing off into loud, whimpering cries. What happened instead was she reached out with desperately grasping fingers for Rachel's wrist and pulled her towards her, so that Rachel barely had the time and presence of mind to put down the toilet seat and sit on it so she would not be joining Santana on the floor. What happened instead was that she laid her cheek against Rachel's leg and held her wrist tightly in one hand, her shin in her other, and poured out her thoughts in a barely understandable tone.

"I don't want to lose Glee! I love it and it's the best part of my day, it's the only thing about this whole damn school that even makes me want to get up in the morning and GO there, I like to dance and sing and do all that cheesy emotional stuff, I like to watch everyone else even if they're not as good as I am, I like it, it's better than Cheerios and I don't want to lose it! I don't want it to be gone, I need it, it's the only thing in my whole life that makes me feel good….it's the only thing I want and it won't even be there next year, what am I supposed to do when I'm just a Cheerio again? I belong THERE… I love singing those lame songs and doing those stupid dances…I love Glee Club…I love all of you, even you with your stupid kindergartner outfits and your tralala I'm-going-on-Broadway singing…I don't want to lose it, I need it, I NEED IT, it's not FAIR!"

Her voice rose to its highest pitch at her last several words before breaking completely, and Santana abandoned herself to her crying, fingers clutching Rachel tighter as she wailed. She didn't look up at the other girl and couldn't even see her through her thick sheen of tears, but she could feel Rachel's hand slowly, awkwardly stroke over her hair and then settle for patting her back, not trying to pull away, though she could almost taste the other girl's bemusement and panic.

"Um…we love you too, Santana…even if you are, uh, rather harsh sometimes, and, uh…a little mean-spirited…and sometimes I do question your loyalty…but you know, you are an asset to our club, and we do love you too…"

When her arms slowly came around Santana, Santana grasped her back with a needy clinginess, her face burrowing into the curve of Rachel's shoulder. For several minutes Rachel remained still and relatively quiet, allowing her shirt to be steadily dampened from her tears, and when this seemed to taper off, she helped Santana to her feet and towards the sink, wetting a washcloth and handing it to her.

"For your face," she said when Santana blinked at her, "wash it off?"

Santana didn't remember later taking the cloth from her and just holding it blankly, so that Rachel ended up gently using it on her herself. She didn't remember Rachel taking her by the elbow and guiding her out of the room and up the stairs of the basement to sit on the couch as she called for one of her dads to come pick them both up. She didn't remember sobbing in the backseat of Rachel's dad's car as he drove her home, or Rachel taking her upstairs to her bedroom through the backdoor of Santana's house while whispering in her ear all the while that she had asked Puck for her address. And she certainly didn't remember Rachel helping her into bed, taking off her shoes for her, and tucking her in before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day, the last day of school, Santana remembered nothing but a vague, hazy recollection of herself and Rachel in the bathroom, but this was more than enough to alarm her. So when Rachel approached her in the hallway, her eyes bright, hopeful, and yet also concerned, asking her how she was feeling, she wasted no time in making her expression as scornful and contemptuous as she could manage as she looked down her nose at her.

"What do you care, Dwarf? You might have heard otherwise, but I don't swing that way, in case you're wondering. At least, not in your case."

And Rachel had taken it without comment, simply walking away, but Santana had seen her eyes dim as she turned, had watched her shoulders sag slightly as she left. And for one moment, the guilt that struck her as she observed Rachel's back was almost enough to call her back, to tell her the truth…that she would miss her as much as any of the others, now that they were back in their previous stereotypical roles. Maybe even more.


	3. Chapter 3: Love

It wasn't typical for them to drink, when no guys were around to impress with it. Proper little Quinn would hardly dare to raid her mother's wine bottles, not if she had no way to replace them; she was always sure that her mother could tell every small scuff mark on the wall or carpet, every slightly off kilter piece of furniture to the inch, and would undoubtedly immediately detect any difference in the level of fluid in her alcohol. Santana had suggested multiple times that Quinn simply replace the difference with water, but Quinn had always been adamantly against this.

"Some of those bottles are worth hundreds of dollars," she had informed Santana seriously. "Do you think she won't know the difference between that and when you dilute it into watery grape juice?"

"I can think of a lot more ways to spend hundreds of dollars than that," Santana had rolled her eyes, snorting. "Hasn't she ever heard of four dollar packs of wine coolers?"

But one particular night after the football game was over, and she, Quinn, and Brittany had migrated towards Quinn's house for the night, Santana had persisted more than usual in her request. It wasn't that she really enjoyed drinking; it was more so that by being able to focus on drinking, while around them, it would make it that much easier to be able to ignore everything she felt when alone with them for the night.

Santana knew, of course, how sleepovers with Quinn and Brittany usually went. She, Quinn, and Brittany would do each other's hair and nails, watch movies and make popcorn, though if they were staying at Quinn's house, any food or drinks in her bedroom were watched by Quinn with a worried eye, for fear of spills and stains. They would mock other students and talk about clothes, Cheerios, and occasionally Glee Club, but most of all, they would talk about guys.

What guys they were dating, what guys they had dumped. What guys were into them and what guys they were into. What guys were complete losers and what guys they'd sleep with…but however the flow of the conversation was headed, there would always be a common theme of the guys. And this was the conversation that Santana dreaded, without alcohol to fortify her.

She didn't want to talk about Quinn and Finn the gag-me couple of syrupy sweetness and purity, didn't want to hear her obsess over whether or not they were meant to be even as everyone and their mother knew that both Finn and Quinn were into other people. She didn't want to talk about Quinn and that bleach-headed trouty-mouthed Sam, who was supposed to be into HER, Santana, rather than the perfect little blonde Quinn, who was way too matchy-matchy with him to be anywhere near decent fuck buddies, let alone a serious couple. She didn't want to analyze whether Quinn was really cheating on Finn or not by her dalliances with Sam, and to have to at least somewhat pretend that she cared, or that she wasn't jealous as hell over her for even having the option to worry.

It wasn't because she was single and her friends weren't that bothered Santana, as they both seemed to think. It wasn't that she hated that she was supposed to be the top of the school, a cheerleader, and clearly one of the hottest girls around, and yet still no one was throwing themselves her way to try to get with her for sex, let alone a relationship.

Okay, so maybe that did bother her. She was supposed to be one of the most desirable girls in school, the girl all the guys wanted to screw and all the girls wanted to be. She hadn't made her way through all the guys yet, so where the hell were they?

And then there was Brittany. Brittany and her…whatever the hell it was she had with Artie. Brittany wasn't usually one to talk much about her relationships, primarily because she had never really had one that lasted for longer than a couple of hours at night, at least as far as Santana was aware of. Even now her discussions of Artie were short, sweet, and typical of Brittany; the most she had really heard her say about him was her comparison of him to a Muppet, which had amused Santana considerably more than Brittany had intended. But regardless of what Brittany might say, or how little she might say, Santana dreaded hearing it, because hearing the guy's name on her lips was enough to tense her up in seconds.

Hearing Brittany talk about Artie, or even thinking about Brittany with Artie, was what really bothered Santana about her, Quinn, and Brittany's little chat sessions about guys. Because if Brittany happened to mention any sexual activities with Artie, as she so glibly and obliviously often did with other people, Santana wouldn't be able to take the mental images that would come to her mind, and how the hell would she hide that from her and Quinn? She could talk a good game about her intentions with other guys, and maybe she could even convince herself that she meant it. She could flirt with the boyfriend of every girl she saw and maybe she could almost like the attention they gave her in return. But she couldn't think of Brittany doing the same without feeling her stomach roll into a hard, metal ball of anger and grief and her heart beginning to pound fast enough to leave her shaky with emotion, and so lately she had started out any sleepovers by pushing harder than usual to drink.

As it turned out on that particular night, though, Quinn received a phone call early from a source she declined to mention aloud, but Santana, on the guise of stretching, had managed to sneak a look at her phone screen to see that it was Sam. She had smirked to herself as Quinn excused herself, hearing the blonde walking down the stairs and knowing she was extracting herself as far from possible from them for her "private" little conversation. For a few minutes she had snickered with Brittany over it, imagining aloud her lovesick innuendo with Froggy Lips, complete with miming and making dramatic ribbiting kiss noises for demonstration. As Brittany giggled obligingly, smiling up at her, Santana had amped her antics, breathlessly mocking Quinn's voice as well in a high, breathy falsetto, until Brittany was doubled over laughing, her hand over her mouth. Encouraged further, Santana pushed further, becoming more personal and mean-spirited in her words, until Brittany's smile slipped and she sat up straight again, looking at Santana more seriously.

"I don't think that's really funny anymore, San," she said simply, shaking her head. "This is kind of mean."

From anyone else, Santana would have continued to sneer, not caring about their opinion in the slightest; in fact, it was likely that she would have immediately turned her mocking onto them instead. But this was Brittany, and for her to sit there looking at her solemnly, her blue eyes wide and almost disappointed, caused Santana's heart to twist with regret for her own words. She looked away, dropping her eyes to the side and letting her voice show only irritation and strident impatience rather than guilt and shame as she quickly changed the subject.

"Damn, she's taking forever talking to Froggy, though, isn't she? What does she think we're gonna do to entertain ourselves, make out on her bed all night?"

She looked up at Brittany from beneath her eyelashes as she said this, half hoping that the girl would immediately agree and get to it, but Brittany just tilted her head, considering this flippant remark with serious intent.

"I don't think she does, San. I think she would probably get mad."

"I wasn't serious, Britt-Britt," Santana said quickly, although she had, sort of. Jumping up then, still averting her face from Brittany's gaze, she headed towards the door, calling out over her shoulder to her in an attempt to distract her as much as herself.

"This is boring, she's going to leave us staring at the wall all day while she moons over Trouty Mouth Bieber Wannabe over the phone…ditching us for him already, before she's even broken up with Spastic Moves? Not cool…come on, let's liven the night up a little."

"What do you mean? Are we gonna make out somewhere else?" Brittany asked as she followed behind Santana towards the Fabray kitchen, and it took all of Santana's willpower to shake her head. Even so, she still couldn't bring herself to look back at her.

"No, at least, not yet anyway. We're going to raid her mom's liquor cabinet. Which granted in this place is more like a fancy wine shelf, but hey, bored cheerleaders can't be choosers, right?"

"What are we choosing? Wine?" Brittany asked as Santana opened the pantry area, extracting several bottles in her arms.

Santana grinned, lightly nudging Brittany with her shoulder as she backed away, laying the bottles out on the table.

"Yep, Brittany. That's right. We're choosing wine."

Wine, Santana discovered, or at least the wine that Mrs. Fabray seemed to favor, was considerably less to her taste than she had expected, but it was enough to get the job done. It took her only several swallows from each bottle to find that she was feeling lighter and looser already, a slight headache already gnawing at her skull, but still everything seemed considerably more bearable than it had before. Quinn was still absent, doing whatever it was she was doing on the phone with Sam, and Santana nearly forgot her entirely as she passed bottles back and forth between herself and Brittany, secretly thrilling at her knowledge that Brittany's lips were touching the exact same place that her own were on the bottles. It was almost like a kiss, and she enjoyed it even if she half hoped, half intended to try for an actual kiss later in the night.

Brittany too seemed to be feeling the effects of the wine, growing touchy and giggly and often nudging against Santana with her arm or shoulder, curling into her like a warm, cuddly, and rather smiley puppy. Santana couldn't deny to herself that she enjoyed this too, and eventually she wove her arm around the taller girl, leaning her head against Brittany's as they shared a bottle. Santana had lost track of how many they had sampled, but she had to say that either Quinn's mother was an obsessive collector or else she was a secret wino. The latter would be a shock to be true, in her opinion; if she was hitting the bottle in the closet, then wouldn't she loosen up a tad?

"This is fun," Brittany announced, her head on Santana's shoulder, a smile playing at her lips. Santana looked down at her with a soft smile of her own, feeling the soft tickle of Brittany's hair against her neck and chest, but even though she smiled, she felt her lips tremble slightly, a lump forming in her throat as she fought the sudden urge to cry.

As much as she was enjoying this moment, as good as it felt for Brittany to be touching her and talking to her like this, it wasn't enough. Even if Santana kissed her now and Brittany went along with it willingly, which she almost certainly would, even if they had sex and it was fun and warm and felt as good as it always did, it still wasn't enough. Because what it would mean to Santana, and what it would mean to Brittany, were two entirely different things, and Brittany's meaning would never be enough to satisfy Santana's.

Brittany loved her, but she wasn't enough for her, at least, not enough to make her give up Artie. Brittany wanted her, but not exclusively. Brittany had fun with her, but she would and did have just as much fun with everyone else.

Santana was not the only person she loved and wanted, the only person she would ever want to be with, and for Santana, this was almost as crushing as if Brittany didn't want her at all.

Santana was too busy thinking this darker line of thought, her body beginning to sag slightly against Brittany in reaction to the sadness taking over her, when a slight buzzing noise came from Brittany's hip. Sitting up with an uncoordinated sway, Brittany's hand went to her pocket to retrieve her cell phone, and when she read the screen, her content smile widened, a light coming into her eyes as she began to peck out a reply with rapid speed. Santana pulled more fully away from her, her eyebrows drawing together as she watched her, knowing even before she asked who it was that that brought that look to Brittany's face. As the blonde giggled, covering her mouth with one hand, Santana asked her abruptly, her tone harsh, "Who's THAT?"

"It's Artie," Brittany told her without looking up from the screen, as her thumbs continued to skitter across her keypad. "He wants to know what I'm wearing. You know, we have this way when we're doing it where I stand over his head, and he can reach up and take off all my clothes without having to move his legs, and he was just saying that he wonders if Lord Tubbington has to do that with the lady kitties he has sex with, because his weight problem makes it where he can't really move too fast and he doesn't have an upper body strength. I'm going to have to ask him, but I'm not sure if he'll think that's too personal of a question. He's shy sometimes."

As she pressed send to the message, then almost immediately typed out another as well, Santana stared at her, setting the bottle in her hand aside without hardly noting that she was no longer holding it. Her chest felt hotter and tighter with every second that she watched her friend, and when several seconds passed without Brittany so much as glancing at her, she burst out with a complaint that was higher in pitch and sharper than tone than she had intended.

"Who the hell cares what Artie thinks? Why is he picturing your cat having sex anyway, what the hell is wrong with him?"

"I think he was thinking that maybe Lord Tubbington will need a kitty wheelchair one day soon," Brittany replied seriously, and because it was Brittany, Santana knew that she was completely sincere in her reply. "Or maybe kitty crutches. The crutches might be better because it would give him more exercise."

As she looked down at her phone again, a smile still playing at her lips, Santana reached out and grabbed her arm, jerking it to the side so that Brittany couldn't easily see her messages. When Brittany's eyes shifted to look at her, mildly surprised, Santana held her arm in the same averted position, her voice raising further still.

"Why are you talking to him, you're supposed to be here with me! We're supposed to be having fun, we're supposed to be hanging out TOGETHER, all THREE of us, and if Quinn runs off to go lick her phone receiver over Sam and you sit around talking about cat sex with Artie, that's not us hanging out together, that's you two running off with your guys and ignoring me and leaving me sitting here by myself!"

Brittany's smile faded, her eyebrows knitting into a frown as she gently pulled her arm from Santana's grasp, setting her phone down and scooting a little closer to the other girl. Laying a hand on Santana's arm, she patted her as she tried to soothe her.

"Okay, San, I'll tell him we can talk when you're asleep. We can still hang out."

But that wasn't enough for Santana. The way Brittany said it, at least the way that Santana interpreted it, she was humoring her, putting off what she really wanted to do- talking to Artie- until Santana wasn't around to bother with anymore. If Brittany had really wanted to spend time with her more than she wanted to do anything else, then she wouldn't have even looked at her phone, let alone answered it. She wouldn't have laughed at anything else that anyone had to say, and she certainly wouldn't have gotten that sparkly look in her eyes.

Brittany didn't want to be here with her. Brittany wanted to talk about cat sex and kitty handicapped devices with Artie, and Santana was the one who was left out, the one who was the fifth wheel. This seemed to unbelievably unfair to Santana that the pain that had been pressing against her chest for nearly an hour by then intensified to a sharp stabbing ache, and as Brittany continued to rub a hand over her arm, the heat behind her eyes melted into tears that broke forth and spilled down her cheeks.

"You don't love me!" Santana blurted aloud, and when Brittany blinked, her lips parting as she looked at her with blank surprise, more words burst out, continuing to lay bare to her what she had been holding onto for most of the night, or really, for most of the year.

"You don't love me, Brittany! You don't, not really! No one does, no one ever has, and it's not fair, it's not fucking fair!"

"Yes I do, San," Brittany started, her voice uncertain as she shifted her hand to Santana's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Yes I do, and other people do too. You have a lot of friends. You-"

"No you don't!" Santana cried, shaking her head so vehemently that tears flew off her cheeks, and another rough sob broke forth from her throat. "You don't, and they don't, no one does, don't say that when no one does! They don't love me…it's all "oh you're so hot, Santana, you're so sexy, show me those fake tits, baby," no one really wants ME, no one really loves ME, they just love my tits and my ass and they're not even mine!"

Her voice breaking entirely, she turned to burrow her face into Brittany's shoulder, wrapping her arms around her and hugging her tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of the back of her shirt, as she wept into her shoulder, refusing to relinquish her hold on her even when Brittany gave a gasp that sounded somewhat pained. Her voice muffled and distorted with tears and its suppression against Brittany's shirt, Santana continued to babble against her, uncomforted by Brittany's hand rubbing up and down her back, by her hand fingering gently through her hair.

"No one really cares, no one…I'm not anyone's best friend, I'm just one of their friends and not the best, no one's in love with me, they just want sex with me and that's all…and my family, they don't even know me, they don't care who I am, it's just what I do. It's just "you're from Lima Heights, you're the doctor's daughter, you're a Lopez, don't you dare screw that up and don't you ever embarrass us and don't you forget it!" I'm supposed to be tough and I'm supposed to be sexy and I'm supposed to get good grades and be a cheerleader and make everyone want me and be proud of me but even if I do it they still don't really care, I'm supposed to be better and do better and I just can't, I can't even be what they want and even if I am they still won't want me most or like me best, it doesn't matter!"

"Santana," Brittany started, her voice soft, but Santana barely heard her. She could not control her tears, could not soften her sobbing or keep herself from sniffling and gasping her formerly suppressed misery into the other girl's skin. Her eyes hot and slightly achy against Brittany's neck, she closed them tightly, tears leaking through to steadily dampen her shirt and salt the skin beneath as she continued to talk without bothering to guard her words or emotions.

"People want to BE me or LOOK like me or CHEER like me or have SEX with me…but no one likes me, Brittany," she almost whimpered, sniffling audibly. "I don't like them either but they should like ME…because I'm…they should like me. And it hurts…god, it fucking hurts."

"It's okay, San," Brittany whispered, letting her chin rest on top of the other girl's head and swaying back and forth slightly as she held her, rocking her almost as she might have a baby or tired child. "It's okay…"

For a few moments Santana let her body relax into her, desperately trying to take in the comfort that Brittany was trying to provide. The other girl's arms were solid and warm around her, yet gentle, her voice and touch loving and concerned in a way that Santana craved. Santana kept her eyes closed, letting Brittany rock her and hum to her lightly as she tried to ignore her churning stomach and pounding head, the knowledge that her drinking had undoubtedly spurred most of this, though not all. But as Santana's tears slowed, gradually almost eclipsed by simple sniffing, she began to speak again in a whisper, and it didn't take long to work herself up again.

"I just want to be someone's number one something," she said softly into Brittany's shoulder. "And I'm not. I'm just on the list somewhere, but I'm not at the top. I just…Brit, I just want someone to love me best or…or love me at all, and no one does. Not even you."

"San," Brittany put a hand to the back of her head, trying to draw her face back where Santana would look at her, but simple words by now were not enough. Santana drew in a shuddering breath, and her tears started up again in earnest as she pulled back, shaking her head hard as her voice rose higher again. All of Brittany's efforts to soothe were for nothing as she swung back to exactly where she had been emotionally two minutes before.

"Not even with YOU! Quinn has TWO guys, you have Artie, even stupid Rachel Berry and the Asians have somebody or MULTIPLE somebodies, hell, even Lauren Zizes has someone, but me, I have, I have no one! Lauren Zizes has someone who loves her and I don't! I'm Santana Lopez and I'm less wanted than Lauren Zizes!"

"You have me, San," Brittany tried, her voice soft and sincere as her brow furrowed, her blue eyes growing troubled and clouding over with sadness at her friend's obvious misery, but Santana waved this away with a broken laugh, backing further away from her.

"No I don't! I don't have you, I never had you…you're with Artie now and you were with whatever penis could talk you into sleeping with him before that, you were never with me even when you were WITH me…I don't have you at all. I don't have anyone, I don't have anyone, I don't have ANYONE!"

As she broke out in wild, uncontrolled tears all over again, doubling over and holding her stomach with both arms and letting her hair fall forward to fully cover her face, Quinn appeared in the kitchen doorway, cell phone in hand, staring between Brittany's bothered, uncertain expression several feet away and Santana's full meltdown mode in the middle of the floor, then to the mostly deleted bottles strewn across the floor. Equal measures of shock, anger, disgust, and irritation flitted across her hazel eyes before she exhaled loudly, thinning her lips and rolling her eyes as she came forward towards them, laying her phone down on the counter top.

"How did I figure this would happen? Shit, San, you've been drinking, and I TOLD you how my mom is, she's going to figure it out and I'll be the one in trouble instead of you!"

"You don't love me," Santana wailed, covering her face with one hand, as Quinn, gathering up several bottles in one arm, snapped back at her impatiently.

"Kind of hard to about now when you're pretty much pouring yourself into my mother's expensive bottles. Damn it, Santana, you know how you get when you're drinking…some night this is going to be."

Shoving the bottles back where they belonged and muttering to herself something about having to figure out later how to replace them, she turned to Brittany, her voice only marginally softer as she asked her, "Brit, clean some of this up, will you? Call…ugh, I hate to even suggest this, but if Puck has a way of getting replacements that won't get him arrested…just…see what can be done, okay?"

"Santana-" Brittany begun, her eyes on the still-sobbing girl in the middle of the floor as she put a hand gently to Santana's arm, but Quinn shook her head at her, exhaling again as she motioned with her hand for Brittany to leave her be.

"I'll deal with Little Miss Sob Sister, okay? Just…I'll deal with her."

As she hauled Santana up by her elbows, directing her firmly and not entirely gently towards her own bedroom, Santana was still crying too hard to register the muttered, irritable lecture that the blonde was directing into her ear, but she gathered the gist of it enough to only feel worse. Her attempt to apologize to Quinn was met with an eye roll and little more, likely because it was punctuated with frequent accusations of Quinn loving Sam and Finn both more than her. When Quinn pushed her down onto her bed and threw a sheet over her, directing her to sleep it off, Santana continued to cry more quietly until she felt her body shudder and go almost fully still from exhaustion. To her, Quinn's anger towards her and her leaving her alone in the bedroom then was only further proof of her conviction.

But just when Santana had almost drifted off into sleep, she felt the bed's mattress dip slightly with the pressure of another person's weight, and two arms settled around her, pulling her back into an all too familiar chest. As Brittany spooned her closely against her, her hair tickled Santana's cheek as she put her mouth against Santana's ear, her breath warm against her skin as she whispered.

"I love you, Santana."

Santana had almost settled into a state of calm then, but at those words, fresh tears slowly made their way down her cheeks. She knew in her heart that it was true; Brittany did love her. But not enough, and not exclusively, and for Santana, that was almost the same as not being loved at all.


	4. Chapter 4: Pretty

Pretty

Quinn wasn't one to talk on the phone very often, at least not since middle school. Texting was faster and easier, and if needed, made it much easier to convincingly lie to someone than speaking to them over the phone did. And what with the invention of skyping and instant messaging, Facebook and twitter and tumblr, there seemed little real reason to actually call someone under the age of seventy, especially her friends at school.

Maybe this would change, if a day ever came where she was in contact with her daughter, Beth. Right now it was too hurtful to even think of Beth, let alone to actually attempt to make contact with her, and Quinn wasn't sure whether Beth's adoptive mother would be open to this anyway. But when Beth was two or three or four and couldn't read or use technology like an older kid could, calling her on the phone would be the best way to get in touch with her; even this possibility seemed remote and complicated beyond her desire to do so, however, and Quinn tried not to consider it at all.

Phones, to Quinn, were mostly unnecessary for speaking, but Santana didn't seem to feel the same way. So when her ringtone began to play Nelly Furtado's "Promiscuous" one evening, two days into summer vacation between sophomore and junior year, Quinn rolled her eyes, sighing heavily, and considered ignoring it. Sometimes she simply wasn't in the mood to listen to one of Santana's fast-paced, long-winded gossip fests, particularly when they focused on whatever guy she or possibly she and Brittany together were pinning down in his own bed. When Quinn got going, it was hard to get a word in edgewise sometimes, because the reality of it was that she wanted to talk at you, not to you, and didn't really want to listen to what you had to say at all.

She debated simply not answering. After all, it was late, close to midnight, and she was tired, sitting at her desk in her pajamas with her hair slightly tousled down her back, hardly prepared for the sharp barbed witticisms and oversharing that Santana tended towards. But if she ignored her now then Santana would make her hear about it later, so she picked up the phone unenthusiastically, pressing the button to speak.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pregnancy Boobs," was Santana's greeting, accompanied by a snickering laugh. Her voice was slightly too loud and crackled over the receiver, as if she were putting her mouth too close to the phone to speak. "Can you fit in your old bras yet or are you still rivaling Elizabeth Taylor for biggest knockers?"

Quinn ground her back teeth together unconsciously, breathing out through her nostrils as her fingers tightened around her receiver. Santana knew she was self-conscious about her pregnancy-engorged breasts, even if she would never actually say it aloud to the other girl to have as an easy weapon against her. Running her free hand through her hair, she said back to Santana coolly, "I'll be back to my usual measurements soon enough, San, but you still won't be able to borrow my clothes, so don't get too excited. My bras don't come in size 32A."

"Fuck that, you're not gonna be able to make your stupid Olive Oyl jokes anymore, bitch, because my tits are gonna blow yours away in a few days, and without the stretch marks for "unique enhancements!" Santana crowed, and she giggled slightly into the receiver, again much too close so that Quinn cringed at the sharp crackling noise it caused. "How's them apples, Fabray?"

"I'll assume you're using a figure of speech when you talk about apples and not referring to your chest," Quinn said dryly as Santana snorted into the receiver in apparent amusement.

"Ooh, Fabray's feisty tonight! Wish I could see your face already going Jolly Green Giant over there…too bad, I'm gonna be the tits of the trio now, you're just gonna have to make do with being the ass! Haha I know you've got THAT covered…"

Quinn was beginning to quickly escalate past irritated to actual anger by this point as Santana continued to laugh directly into the receiver. What was the point of this conversation, and why was Santana choosing to have it NOW, over the phone, when it would be much easier to ignore her texting?

"San, is there a point to this?" she asked, her voice icy. "Because I have no idea what you're talking about. If you're planning to use chicken cutlets full time, well, I'd suggest a Wonder Bra instead, because those things start to smell after a while."

"I'm not gonna have to stuff, Madame Boob-ery, that's what I'm saying…I'm getting a boob job, so you can start throwing a goodbye party to your tits and start looking at wonder bras, 'cause ain't no one gonna compete with these babies now!" Santana announced, and it was about then, when she broke out into a snickering, slightly snorting laugh again that Quinn realized that she was drunk.

Suddenly the phone call made that much more sense. A drunk Santana was even more annoying than usual, and would, by the end of the night, undoubtedly need to be taken care of in some way. Because a drunken Santana seemed unable to simply be drunk without spreading herself around far and wide to annoy as many people as possible.

"San, you're drunk," she exhaled, though she knew very well that straightforward confrontation usually wasn't the best way to handle the other girl, and fully expected her to deny or deflect it. Which Santana did not surprise her by doing exactly that.

"No I'm not, you just think that no one else can drink two sips without sleeping with Mohawk and getting pregnant. Been there and used a condom for that, so no sweat and no lectures, Q."

"Yeah you are," Quinn pressed, leaning back into her chair and steepling her forehead with her fingers as she restlessly swung one foot back and forth. "Which makes it hard to know how much of what you're saying isn't completely crap. Are you really getting breast implants, or is that just Santana-is-drinking talk?"

"Benefits of a doctor daddy," Santana replied smugly. She sounded like she was moving around as she spoke, her voice slightly slurred and still too loud, so Quinn had to concentrate to understand her. "Going for the slice and dice in two days, then it will be me with the best rack in town. Maybe the state. Boys won't know what hit them…or maybe they will, they might be big enough to bounce them back from me a step if they get too close."

Quinn tried hard not to picture this little scenario. "San, are you saying your DAD is doing the surgery on you? But he's not a cosmetic surgeon…and you're his daughter. That's not legal, is it?"

"No, blonde-brain," Santana huffed, and Quinn could practically see her rolling her eyes even over the line. "His friend or boss or whatever. I don't care if it was Papi doing it anyway, someone's doing it, someone's gonna make me tit-tascular and that's all I care about."

"You're sixteen," Quinn pointed out. "You have to have parent permission for that. Your dad said yes to it?"

Of course, Quinn knew that Santana's parents were very permissive and distant with her, that often they had no idea what Santana was up to and didn't seem to much care, as long as they didn't drag them into a mess with it. And her own parents, when she was even younger, had agreed to let her get a nose job. But a nose job and a boob job seemed like two drastically different things to her, and she couldn't even imagine her parents' reaction if she had asked for a boob job.

"Your parents don't care? They'll actually pay for that?" she pressed, and Santana sighed dramatically, seeming to find this line of questioning boring or irritating to have to respond to.

"Yeah, why should they care, it's my boobs here. It's not like they have to touch them or look at them, they just hand over the plastic and their roll is done. Look, Q-"

"What does your abuela say?" Quinn interrupted her, thinking that this, if anything, would be the one question to give Santana pause. Her abuela was not exactly a warm and fuzzy sort of person, and if she already knew Santana's plan, she would in no way approve of it. In fact, Quinn wouldn't be surprised if she called Santana a selfish, skanky whore and threw her out of the house, maybe even mustering the strength to do so physically on her own. Despite the woman's harshness towards her, Santana did love and admire her, though, and so if her abuela knew and had reacted badly, that could account for Santana's current drunkenness and her need to call Quinn to brag.

"Yeah, like I'm really gonna tell her the truth," Santana snorted, shooting down one of the few shots that Quinn had thought she might have to reason with her with instant dismissal. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Q. I'll tell her…that I had an appendix out, or whatever. She didn't finish high school, how the hell does she know it ain't located beneath your boobs? She won't even know what the hell it is, she'll probably ask me if I got it from smoking or something. I got it all figured out, trust me."

Trusting Santana Lopez was not something that Quinn was often eager to do, and this case was no exception. She cringed at the thought of the fallout that might occur if Santana's abuela ever figured out just exactly what the "needed surgery" Santana was going through was, although Quinn suspected the sudden enlargement of her breasts might seem a tad obvious even if the woman was half blind. Regardless, she dropped that particular tack for now, switching gears again.

"San, do you REALLY think you need a breast enlargement?"

"Well, yeah," Santana replied, dragging out the word in a manner that indicated she thought Quinn was the one being illogical. Quinn could hear in the background what sounded like a bottle being opened and Santana taking a swallow noisily, and she breathed out heavily again, knowing that this conversation was not likely to end pleasantly. Or ever, if Santana really got going. At least she was home instead of out at some party where Quinn might have to come pick her drunk butt up and take her home.

"You said it yourself, blondielocks, having the boobs of a 12 year old can only be hot for so long, and I get sick of guys and their stupid Lolita fantasies…anyway," she concluded with another noisy swallow, "Coach said they don't jiggle enough to be sexy so how am I gonna stay at the top or make captain next year if I still have baby boobs?"

"San, really?" Quinn blurted, somewhat incredulous, and yet she wondered why she was; Santana thinking this way, basing her self-worth off other people, even Sue Sylvester, was incredibly predictable. And for Quinn, sadly familiar. "You're letting Sue Sylvester talk you into a boob job? You would change your body permanently for HER? Come on, Santana, seriously?"

There was no point in arguing when Santana was drunk or drinking, usually; if she even retained what you said later, it would do little good in the present, because it would usually provoke her into getting in a physical fight or cause her to burst into tears. For now, though, Santana hadn't yet reached that point, because she simply argued back, albeit raising her voice.

"You changed your body for a guy because he made you feel skinnier, you let him blow you up like a beach ball with legs and arms, and pop a kid out besides, what the hell is the difference?"

She had a point, and Santana didn't even know about Quinn's own makeover, before having met her, let alone the nose job. But this was Santana they were talking about, now Quinn, and Quinn didn't think it needed to acknowledge this.

"That was a mistake, San, obviously it was a mistake, I didn't deliberately set out to get pregnant. But even if I had, it's not the same thing. I could work my body back to being the same as always, and I did. But you, you can't just take out implants like you'd take off a bra!"

"Why the hell would I want to?" Santana shot back.

"They can be dangerous," Quinn tried to maintain patience, getting out of her chair and going to sit on her bed, leaning back against the headboard with a sigh. "People can get infected or even die, Santana. They-"

"I don't care," Santana's voice was almost shouting now, her inebriation clear in her tone, and Quinn held the receiver away from her ear and turned her face away, flinching. "I don't care, so what, maybe that's better off, at least maybe people would finally pay attention to me instead of always going on about YOU!"

That last statement definitely got Quinn's attention. Had Santana managed to slip a passive suicidal ideation in there along with that declaration of jealousy…and what the hell did she have to be jealous over? Santana was still on the cheerleader squad, almost certain to make captain next year, one of the most desired and envied girls in school, while Quinn had been stripped of all her status, the outcasted pregnant girl that only Glee Club would accept. How could she POSSIBLY have a reason to be jealous over her, or to think that Quinn got more attention?

"Santana, what the hell are you talking about?"

"It's not fair, Quinn, it's always you, all about you, everyone thinks about you and worries about you and roots for you even when you're fat and pregnant-"

"Everyone ROOTS FOR ME?" Quinn burst out with, incredulous, bolting up on her bed now and gripping the phone tightly as she protested. "Santana, everyone treated me like a leper, I got kicked off the cheerleading squad and out of my own house, how the hell did everyone ROOT FOR ME?"

But Santana didn't seem to have heard that at all as she plunged ahead with her rant, ignoring Quinn's rebuttal.

"Even pregnant you still ended up hot with those big boobs, and they still are THERE even though you lost most of that weight, how fair is that, that's not fair at all, it's like the best of both worlds! And you're still blonde and pretty with those big eyes and that ass, your ass is bigger than mine, you know, and-"

"Hey!" Quinn protested again, though she could sort of tell that Santana meant the "big ass" part as a compliment, in her own way, and again Santana ignored her interruption.

"It's not fair, Quinn, I work out EVERY DAY and I'm on the squad killing myself all day and I drink that nasty shit of Sue's to throw up and I throw up on my own if I ate too much that day and I STILL can't lose the fat on my thighs and I STILL have no ass and no tits, it's not fair, it isn't FAIR!"

By then it was obvious to Quinn that she was crying, sharp, uneven sobbing crackling into the receiver so painfully that Quinn cringed again, holding the phone slightly away with irritation even as reluctant pity and concern stirred in her chest. Drunk, emotional Santana wasn't fun at all to deal with, but Quinn was her friend, however badly Santana often treated her, and she still didn't like to listen to her get so upset.

"San," she said more softly, "listen to me. Just take a deep-"

"You've always been the pretty one," Santana gasped, tears heavily straining her voice and making her difficult to understand through the receiver. "I'm just pretty FOR A HISPANIC and you're just pretty PERIOD, everyone looks at you like the princess and I'm NOTHING…no one looks at me unless I make them, no one thinks I'm pretty…they just think I'm hot and that's not the same, I want to be pretty too! I want people to think I'm pretty…"

She trailed off then into tears alone, still sputtering without coherent words into the phone as Quinn sat back again, trying to process what she was hearing. She was used to weepy drunk Santana, but this outburst was above and beyond anything she was used to. She and Santana, as a rule, didn't confide in each other, let alone open up serious insecurities. Their relationship was not one that would allow this with any measure of trust, as both girls were sure that the other would turn around and use their confidences in them against them if given an opportunity or reason to do so. She had known for some time, of course, that Santana was insecure about her appearance, however she might usually present herself, but this confession, however much it was influenced by her drinking, seemed to have a lot of truth to it as well, and Quinn didn't know how to take it.

Sighing again, she said finally, "San, you're drunk. That's why you're so upset. Okay? Tomorrow you'll have a hangover, but you'll be able to think more clearly, and you'll know that all of this…getting a boob job, and…thinking you aren't pretty…you'll know it's wrong, that it's not a good idea, okay?"

"No I won't," Santana sniffled, then hiccupped. "No I won't, I have to do it. I have to-"

"San," Quinn interrupted, having reached her limit of patience for the night, and struggling to continue to sound civil. "San, we can talk about this tomorrow, okay? Because I don't think it's doing any good tonight. Are you home? In your own bedroom? And not going to do anything stupid?"

Santana's response was mostly obscured with her sniffling, but it sounded like she was answering in the affirmative. Sighing again, Quinn mustered up her final response.

"Then we'll talk about it tomorrow. Okay? Go to sleep, and we'll talk about it tomorrow."

She paused, then, lowering her voice, made herself try a final time to reassure. "San…you're pretty, okay? I promise. Do you know how many girls would want to look like you? Do you know how much I wanted to look like you when I was pregnant last year?"

Santana's reply was slow in coming, still choked with tears when she finally managed. "But…I don't want to look like me, Quinn."

Hearing this, Quinn lightly bit her lower lip, trying to push aside the faint sadness that came over her to hear this. Because she knew the feeling, all too well.

"I know," she said softly. "I know, San…but…just go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

As she hung up, then lay down in her bed, trying to empty her mind enough to sleep, she kept hearing the quiet hopelessness to Santana's voice as she said her final sentence. And when she called her the next day, asking her how she was feeling, Santana acted as though she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, and hadn't called her the night before at all. Quinn didn't challenge her; there would be no point in it, not when Santana had made up her mind to erase the facts.

But three days later, Santana did undergo breast enlargement, without once having spoken to Quinn sober about it at all. And when she came over after her recovery to announce it to her- "I outboob you now, and I look HOT!"- was her way of breaking the news- Quinn nevertheless caught Santana, several times, looking at her new chest in the mirror with a worried frown before hurriedly averting her eyes, and she knew that whatever had changed physically, nothing else had in her thoughts.

It never did seem to work that way.


	5. Chapter 5: Sexuality

For the first few years that Kurt had lived in Lima, it had been very rare to receive an uninvited visitor to his home. Or actually, any visitor that wasn't blood related and forced to come due to a holiday obligation.

Of course, there was no absence of people who went BY his house- usually hanging out the window jeering insults, honking the horn loudly enough to make him jump, regardless of where he was in the house, or throwing eggs, toilet paper, or pixie sticks towards the direction of his porch. But bullies and mockers were hardly "visitors," at least not by Kurt's definition, and so until the Glee Club, and the friendships he had begun to foster there, he had not really had anyone willingly come by his home, just to meet up with or talk to him.

There would be a stigma to that, after all. Anyone seen or known to willingly enter the home of the one and only openly gay kid at William McKinley High School would become a social pariah within three hours of his entrance, and no one was willing to resign themselves to that fate. Kurt had resigned himself to what seemed the inevitable facts- he would go through high school without a single real friend, and his time to blossom would have to come in college, when he could finally get outside Lima and do something big in the real world, somewhere he could finally really be appreciated for who he was.

But then had come Mr. Schuester and the Glee Club, and now Kurt and Finn Hudson's newly married parents and their home together was one of the most popular hangouts for the rest of the crew. More weekends than not, and some weekdays too, Kurt would be pleasantly surprised by one of the other club members ringing his doorbell, and it wasn't even always whichever girlfriend Finn was on at the time. Whether they wanted to practice a number, gossip over other club members, or just hang out, it was fun in a way that Kurt had never thought he might actually experience in high school. Once he would have dreaded the sound of the doorbell, sure that no good could be on the other side; now he smiled instinctively and hurried to answer it, glad to see one of his friends.

But there was one Glee member who had never once graced his doorstep by herself, and had made it quite obvious that she never would, beyond absolute necessity. So the day that Santana Lopez showed up at his door, Kurt knew that something must be wrong.

The ringing was different, for one thing. Whereas most people simply pressed the doorbell once, maybe twice, if they were impatient, with polite pauses in between to give his family time to get to the door, that particular day, whoever was at the door simply leaned into the doorbell and didn't back away, seeming to be pressing all her weight into it. As the bell sounded in a long, endless shrill, Kurt gritted his teeth, his nerves shredding at the sound as he hurried past his father and stepmother, who were seated together on the living room couch, watching an older movie.

"Who the hell is that?" Burt Hummel questioned, his brow scrunched with irritation as he partly sat up to watch his son go by, and Kurt shook his head, wondering with some dread as well if the bullying of the year before had returned, but he kept his face turned away, not wanting his father to see his expression.

"I don't know, Dad, it's very rude. Maybe a joke. I'll deal with it," he said, even as Burt called after him.

"Kurt. You want me to see-"

"No, Dad, I've got it," Kurt shook his head quickly, and before his father could offer any further support, he walked on. He appreciated his wanting to back him up, but sometimes it just hurt his pride to have to accept. Sometimes it was easier to accept a Slushee to the face than to let his father handle things…and surely someone wouldn't track down his house just for that?

Just to be sure, he peeked through the peephole before opening the door, and his eyes widened to see Santana leaning against it, hand pressed flat against the doorbell as though she were trying to push it through the wall. Her hair was loose and tousled badly down her back, her eyes narrowed so they were barely open, and her shirt was partly unbuttoned, her makeup smeary around the eyes and mouth. She didn't have a Slushee or any other noticeable weapon in her hands, however, and looking at her in such a disheveled state, Kurt was concerned. They were hardly the best of friends, or even friends at all, really, as her harsh words towards him often bordered on cruel, and he certainly wouldn't trust her nearly as much as most of the other Glee members. But she was still one of them, however sharp her tongue or vicious her actions at times, and she was at his doorstep for a reason. If she needed help…

"Santana," he said as he quickly opened the door, instinctively reaching one hand out towards her before withdrawing it. "Hi. Are you…okay?"

At least part of the mystery of what exactly was wrong with her was made apparent as soon as the strong scent of alcohol reached his nostrils; it appeared that she had spilled some on herself, or maybe she had drunk so much it was emanating from her pores. When she slowly took her hand off the doorbell, it seemed to take longer than it should to return to her side, and as her eyes slid up to his, he saw that her pupils were dilated, the smirk she tried to give him lopsided.

"Bet you never had a girl at your door," she snickered, pointing a finger at him that wavered slightly. "Except you, I guess. I guess you count."

"Santana…" Kurt started to defend himself, but then, looking her over again and the state that she was in, let the sentence drop before it formed. As she took a step forward, she wobbled, and Kurt instinctively reached out to catch hold of her arm. Santana tried to shake him off, her voice not quite a snarl, but close enough.

"Don't touch me, ladyfingers!"

"Fine, fall over if that's what you want, I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time you faceplanted on someone's floor under the influence of alcohol," Kurt snapped, his concerned tempered by her attitude. "And I suppose it wouldn't matter if you broke your nose doing it, because we all know you're a pro at plastic surgery by now."

When Santana blinked at him, momentarily seeming not to have words, and her mouth twitched, her eyes growing wet, Kurt was sorry for his harshness. He sighed, saying her name again and extending out a hand, but Santana attempted to stumble back away from him, shaking her head.

"I said don't touch me, fairy, talk about plastic surgery, you're the one who wants to be like the Johnny Depp version of Willy Wonka or something…not to mention the underwear parts I know you'd like to swap out…"

"What are you doing here, Santana?" Kurt interrupted her, trying and failing not to get angry with her, his voice noticeably tighter, jaw muscle clinching. "Did you really have to get yourself that drunk to get up the courage to come here, to my own house, just to insult me?"

His eyes scanned past her, seeing no car in his driveway, and it occurred to him that Santana, living across the town in Lima Heights, would in fact have had to walk quite a distance to get to his home. If she hadn't driven- and he hoped sincerely in her inebriated state that she hadn't- then how and mostly why had she gotten here?

She was muttering something that judging from her tone was likely an insult or snappish retort, but her voice was slurring again too badly to entirely understand, and Kurt didn't try to interpret it as he asked her again, "Santana, why are you here? Cut the trash talk and get to the point, because honestly, you look terrible. What's going on?"

He didn't know if it was his words themselves or the directness they were conveying, or simply that she could no longer maintain even a fragmented pretense of attitude or control. Whatever it was, as soon as he was finished speaking, Santana's mouth turned down sharply, her eyes flooded, and she lowered her face, staggering a step forward as her shoulders bowed and she broke down into tears.

This had not been exactly the reaction Kurt was expecting- he had anticipated something more along the lines of swinging fists and nearly incoherent threats about being from Lima Heights- but it was not something he was entirely unused to seeing either. Kurt didn't often go to the same parties as Santana, or to parties at all, actually, but the few times that he had witnessed her drunk, there had almost always been a point somewhere in there where she started to cry. Still, judging from the way she had looked even before the tears, he was unsure if this was simply Santana crying because she was drunk, or if something more serious was wrong and the drunkenness just happened to be part of things.

Whatever was the case, he was concerned. He never would have thought that Santana would come to him for anything except throwing off insults, so whether or not she had steered herself in his direction under her usual methods of judgment, he was still the one she had come to, and he wasn't going to ignore the obligation to help that he felt, as much as he personally disliked the girl.

"Hey, Santana…Santana, are you all right?" he asked more softly, reaching out to lay a hand on her arm, more slowly and carefully this time, and she didn't shrug him off or snarl at him as she had before. In fact, she lurched towards him, grasping his shoulders with fumbling hands, and started to bow her face forward, close to him, as if she intended but could not quite bring herself to push her face down into his chest. She was close enough that he could feel the heat of her body near him, and she was shaking, her slim fingers holding him surprisingly hard as Kurt tried to figure out what to do. Were this Rachel or Mercedes, Tina or even Brittany, it wouldn't be difficult to decide; he would simply put his arms around them and hug them. But this was Santana, and knowing exactly how to proceed, or how she wanted to proceed, was very different.

He settled for gingerly patting her back, the best that he could manage with her gripping both his arms, and then he carefully extracted himself from her grasp. Santana sobbed aloud, starting to babble a stream of words that Kurt only understood half of, and he tried to nod along supportively even as his mind spun with confusion.

"I just want us to be more and we aren't and we can't be and no one would think the way they should about it and maybe they're right, I don't know, maybe I'm wrong and I'm stupid and I'm just a huge freak like you, how the hell can I deal with being like YOU? I don't want to be like that, I'm so stupid and I feel so bad every day, every single day, and I can't say anything and no one knows or understands, no one gets it at all and I can't TELL them, I can't SAY anything because I know exactly what's gonna happen and it will just be worse-"

She was sobbing still, her words coming in gasping bursts, and as she gulped for breath, she wobbled again as she shifted her weight, so that Kurt instinctively reached out to steady her. Looking down at her, seeing the way her mascara was beginning to smear, her nose starting to run as well, and how utterly miserable she was, Kurt tried to think of what exactly he should do for her. It seemed strange to take Santana Lopez into his house, especially with his dad and stepmom sitting in the living room, undoubtedly already curious about who had been the rude doorbell ringer. But he couldn't keep standing out on the front porch with her, and what if Kurt came home with some of his friends or even his girlfriend and saw her out here like that? That would be mortifying for her.

Kurt never thought the day would come where he was concerned about Santana Lopez being embarrassed, but then, he had never thought she would come to him for…what was she here for exactly anyway? Comfort? Help? A ride home? An ear to vent to until she passed out and forgot everything she had said in the first place?

He supposed it didn't matter, that he could be any one of those things, at least for the day. It was true that Santana would almost certainly have never been any of those things to him, but then, that was part of Kurt's pride, that he was not and never would be like Santana Lopez. Even to Santana herself.

"Santana?" he repeated uncertainly, calling her name again to make sure she was listening, and waited until she turned bleary eyes his way to go on. "I'm going to take you upstairs to my room, okay? But my dad and stepmom are in the living room and I don't want them to see you, so we'll have to go through the backdoor and the kitchen and then up the stairs."

Santana didn't seem to care where they went or why, so Kurt, after another hesitation, took her by the elbow and began to lead her around the side of the house. He felt almost paranoid as he herded her inside, shushing her as he shut the door behind him and began to guide her upstairs, but it was for her as much as for him. If his parents heard her crying, they would certainly come to see what was wrong; he was surprised as it was that they hadn't already come to see what was taking him so long to answer the front door.

As he had predicted, as soon as he shut the backdoor, he heard his father's voice calling out to him from the living room and froze, pulling Santana to a stop too and gesturing for her to be quiet as he responded.

"I'm fine, Dad, just going up to my room!"

"Kurt, did you come through the back door?" Burt Hummel called suspiciously as Kurt hurriedly began to tug Santana along up the stairs, having to move much more slowly than usual to make sure she wouldn't stumble and careen down headfirst in her uncoordinated state.

"Yes, there was an old newspaper in the yard and, and I just went to throw it away…lawn aesthetics are very important, Dad!" Kurt called back to him, and he was relieved when his father didn't' question him further. Hastening Santana the rest of the way through the house and into his bedroom, he ushered her through first before shutting the door behind himself, letting out a sigh of relief.

"It's okay…you can, uh, sit down, if you want," he told her, gesturing almost formally towards his bed, but although she was still crying, albeit more quietly, she cast a suspicious look towards his bed, sniffling as she asked in a manner more like the Santana he was accustomed to, "Have you had gay sex on that bed?"

"Santana!" Kurt blurted, his cheeks coloring, but Santana released a shaky breath, shaking her head as she sat on it anyway, scrubbing her palm across both cheeks.

"Whatever, I don't even care right now…how fucking bad is it that I don't even care that I'm sitting on your gay-sex bed?"

"Santana, I haven't had sex of any kind on this bed-" Kurt drew himself up, indignant, but she ignored him, already tearing up as she launched once more into a verbalization of her own rapid-paced thoughts.

"It's not like I haven't had my own gay sex, but it's different with girls, it's not as ick or messy…it's actually really fun and…and beautiful…I didn't think sex could be like that but it is, it IS, and what if I never have it like that again? I always thought people were full of shit about it being better if you're with someone you love but I think they were right…oh god, I'm never gonna have that again, because she loves me but she doesn't LOVE me and I don't think she ever will, she'll never understand how much that HURTS, she just can't…and now I'm sitting here telling YOU about it, I had to come to YOU because you're the only loser in this town who's a big enough loser to maybe get it, and that makes me a loser too, just as much as you are because I'm telling YOU…I'm a loser and a freak and she must know that, she must see it and she just, she's too good to really know or see with words, but she must know it someone anyway and that's why…that's why…"

Santana was sobbing hard again then, almost doubled over on Kurt's bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, bowed forward so her hair fully concealed her face and her forehead nearly touched her knees. She rocked back and forth slightly in rhythm to her sobs, and Kurt slowly inched forward, aching for her without quite knowing what to do, or how this day had come where he could genuinely feel so sorry for Santana Lopez.

He was beginning to understand the gist of what she was saying, the familiar vague dread of it coming over his heart. He had been here too many times before not to recognize the feeling behind her words, even if no specifics had yet been given. So he sat next to her on the bed, lightly putting a hand on her back, and waited for her to finish what he already knew, trying to put into the touch the words that would not be enough.

And after nearly five minutes of just tears, a stormy, steady weeping that left her shuddering beneath his hand, struggling to draw breath, he finally heard her whisper the truth that she had held closest and most fearfully to her heart, the confession that had most frightened her, and was now set out naked and bare before him.

"I'm gay. I'm gay, and I'm in love with Brittany….and I don't think she loves me back."

End


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